I worked 40 years to retire early. My grown son is unemployed and expects me to keep working to support him. I told him no. “You’ll regret it,” he replied with a smirk. The next day, his girlfriend called me in a panic. She told me that my son had stormed out of their apartment after an argument and hadn’t come back all night.
My heart dropped, but I kept my voice steady. “Did he say where he was going?” She hesitated. “He said he was going to ‘teach you a lesson.’ He had some papers with him… I think he was planning something with your house.” I drove straight home, dreading what I might find. When I pulled into the driveway, I froze.
A For Sale sign stood on my lawn — fresh, bright, and not from my realtor. My son’s car was parked out front. I stormed inside, calling his name. There he was at my kitchen table, smugly sipping coffee with a stack of documents in front of him. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said smoothly.
“I’m handling things now. This house is worth a fortune. You don’t need it. I’ll make sure you get a condo… eventually.” That was the moment I realized my son hadn’t just become entitled. He’d become dangerous. And I had to decide — protect him from himself, or protect everything I had worked my entire life to build.